


Fractured Negotiations

by lalakate



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, F/M, Romance, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 11:34:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13523400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalakate/pseuds/lalakate
Summary: Two strangers find solace and completion in each other during World War II.





	1. Chapter 1

His mouth.

It was what she had first noticed about him at the dance hall, the manner in which it had been sternly set capturing her attention, the concern it bore conveying all she needed to know. She had watched him move deliberately to a corner, keeping to himself, accepting a drink from another soldier with a slight twist of his cheek and a mumbled word of thanks. He remained alone, separating himself from the crowd around him, soothing hidden wounds too raw to nurse in solitude.

She knew this trick well. It rarely worked.

It had refused to smile when she approached his table, this mouth that was now grazing her cheek, strumming on cords stretching taut in hidden regions. This mouth now open and hungry. Seeking, exploring…

Feasting.

His lips had tweaked in a crooked smile when she had asked if she could join him, half sitting on his leg when he didn't make room for her quickly enough. They had flickered in surprise and appreciation when she helped herself to a drink of his whisky without his consent, softening towards her as he wordlessly invited her to be his guest.

Lips that were now burrowing into her ear, traipsing across her jaw, seeking her own again as bodies already intoxicated drank deeply from each other. Lips that tenderly spoke her name and grazed her temple moved to dance across her cheekbone in search of something she prayed they would find together.

Perhaps they sought too much.

Dark eyes gazed into her, the same that had shot her a look of amazement when she informed him that she knew how to repair the engine of an automobile. They had challenged her when she asserted that tea was vastly superior to coffee, flashed dangerously when she announced that baseball was boring when compared to cricket, and narrowed in doubt when she declared that it most assuredly did not rain nine out of ten days in England.

Eyes now darkened with each drugged kiss, with each new discovery, with each slow drag of lips along quivering flesh. They burrowed into nerves further than she would like, making her wonder if he saw more of her than she was comfortable offering.

Those eyes would be her undoing.

Fingers stroked her arm in an upward pattern, the same roughened texture she had noticed as they had tapped the table causing a delicious friction as they moved across her collar bone. She wondered what weapons they had held, how many lives they had struck down, these digits now painting lines of passion across the neckline of her dress with artistry. They traveled up her neck, deftly weaving themselves into her hair, their ministrations on her scalp threatening to relieve her of all conscious thought.

Did they massage his own temples at night to relieve the ungodly stress of war? Did they ever fold together in prayer, seeking a sense of assurance and protection in a world gone to hell?

Would they relieve her of this ever-expanding ache just as they were relieving her of her dress, undoing buttons, arousing gooseflesh across the expanse of her back as they stroked skin freshly exposed? Would they touch her in a way she could not bring herself to voice?

Did they possess the power to ease wounds that burned deeper?

The palm she had pretended to read now directed her dress to the floor, joining with its companion in a silken duet atop her slip. She had told him he was destined for greatness, a self-depreciating shake of his head followed by a hesitant laying that palm atop hers. Greatness had never been in the cards for him, he had insisted, stroking her hand.

Brushing her heart.

That same palm cupping her bottom made her bite his lip, the fervent movement of hands along the plains of her body a response that set her on fire. Hands then made quick work of his uniform, casting what was unnecessary aside until heated skin met heated skin.

And palm pressed palm against the wall.

He had shrugged when she asked him if he had plans for after the war, leaning his head towards one shoulder as he told her it was best not to tempt fate. _Weren't they tempting fate this very moment_ , she had asked him coyly, staring at him with heavy eyes that beckoned him closer? There was so much uncertain in this world, they both knew, the odds of living reduced with each moment that passed. Her shoulder hummed when he touched it, the question in his eyes sealed with an answer in her own.

Her shoulder melted now, covered by his mouth as the strap of her slip faltered. Her hands clasped his for steadiness, her back sliding up and down the wall as his teeth dared a nip. They were mouth to mouth again, undergarments all that barred full disclosure, bodies becoming desperate to know each other completely.

"Are you certain?" he had breathed as they made to leave the club, the concern in his eyes something she had not expected. She had faltered a moment, understanding that once another step had been taken they would be nearly impossible to retrace.

"Yes."

Her breath cried into his ear as his lips trailed the slopes of her breasts, staying along the lines of her slip even as they created a half-terrifying frenzy between her legs.

"Yes," her plea in his mouth as he traced her nipple delicately, and she welcomed his chest pressing her in closer, the contrast of the cool wall to his warm chest thrilling. Then her slip fell off her shoulders, her bra following in short order, the blatant exposure making her pause as she stared back at him.

"Mary," he whispered on her neck, tickling senses already out of hand as her lungs sought much needed air. Her name made this personal, and she clung to him, seeking his covering, craving shared life.

"Charles," she murmured, nearly crumbling at the voicing of his identity. It made him a part of her before their physical joining, a sliver of his soul now resting inside the fragments of a heart still beating.

Breaths mingled as freely as their limbs, and he drew back from her face, stroking her cheek as she closed her eyes.

She had touched his face just outside the door of the dance hall, the rough trace of stubble only encouraging her to extend their connection. She had deliberately dropped any misgivings when he leaned his cheek into her palm, the gesture such a mixture of trust and need that it pressed against the gray confines of her spirit.

"Who have you lost?" he asked in the car, letting her know he understood why she was with him.

"My cousin."

The statement carved deeply, nearly making her falter, pushing her to look out of the window rather than into his eyes.

"We received word last week. He was very dear to me, as close as any brother."

His hand sought her arm as he slowed the car.

"Would you like me to take you back?"

Her hand rested upon his leg, the fear of being alone outweighing any concern of what might lay ahead.

"Do you want me to stay?" Her stomach tumbled inside her as she awaited his answer.

"Yes," he admitted, looking away before claiming her eyes yet again. "I need you."

Threads of weakness stitched across his expression made her answer inevitable.

"Yes."

Her cry spurred him on, fingers stroking her thighs as his mouth covered her breast. Nails dug into his scalp, and his moan bounced inside her chest. Unsteady hands trailed his hips, curving around him as his need pressed hard against her.

Legs nearly faltered when he kissed her as a man in love.

Strides nudged her towards the bed, and he knelt before her, stroking her legs in appreciation as stockings and garters were removed. She shivered all over, knees threatening to give way when the last of her secrets were unveiled. He kissed her hip with a reverence, treasuring what she offered as they tumbled into the sheets.

Then he was naked, as well, the stark beauty of his body bathed in dim light making her breath hitch in wonder. The contours of his chest fascinated her, her hands tracing incoherent patterns that left him breathless.

This chest had warmed her just outside the hotel as he held her against him gently, stroking her hair, staring at her as if she were an apparition that might fade at any moment. Her embrace had encircled his ribs, and she felt his heartbeat even through his uniform, an indicator of life that pulled her into him.

Too see it now uncovered, the etchings of war leaving its prints in a haphazard fashion, made her want him all the more.

Here she was, here with him, partaking of life in a manner probably unwise but grasped and clung to in stubborn desperation. All of him, each length of flesh, each breath, each touch, she accepted everything, her body more ready to receive him than she had the strength to fathom. His heart raced erratically as her hands found his buttocks, and his fingers then sought her, taking her by surprise as they feathered the most intimate of regions. She jumped, moaned, pressed into the contact, seeking a release he promised to grant.

Hands and touches led her continually forward, his tongue branding more deeply than he realized, his mark more profound than he knew. When she shuddered against him, he kissed her hard, prolonging her fulfillment as long as he was able, his whispered endearments guiding her back down to earth.

Then he was against her, at her entrance, her eyes and mouth flying open at the sheer magnitude of what was happening. He pushed in slowly, clasping her breast, breaking her apart in a fashion that made her cry out. She bit her lip as he emerged fully, squeezing her eyes shut at the overpowering sensation. He drew back quickly to stare into her, this connection keeping her afloat as he learned what she had left unspoken.

"Oh, Mary."

They remained frozen, sealed in a moment that now meant more than it had before, and his hand touched her ribs where her heart lay. She then drew his mouth back to hers, the dance of her lips across his own prompting him to move.

His strokes inside her were as gentle as the ones he brushed across her cheek, the tenderness of his kisses stitching a frayed seam of her heart. He held her hand as they rocked, nuzzling her neck as she relaxed into him, adjusting his position as he felt her stir. Another rise was beginning, one that pulled on every nerve, and she sought his lips in hunger, taking what she needed as she hurdled into him yet again. Her body seized, her mind broke apart, and she fell without fear as his arms bound her tightly. He then met her there, his own groans wafting into her hair as his life poured into her.

It was over. And she didn't know what to feel.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he finally questioned, his voice brushing her temple. "That this was your first time with a man?"

His inquiry hovered over limbs entwined, and she buried her face into his chest, garnering the courage necessary to face him.

"Would you have brought me here if I had?"

Fingers tilted her chin towards his face, the censure she feared startlingly absent.

"No. But you still should have said something."

She turned onto her side, resting in the crook of his arm.

"He wasn't my cousin," she admitted, watching his brow crease in confusion. "He was my fiancé."

It was then that the tears pushed through her resolve, and he pulled her closer, wiping one away as another fell into the pillow.

"He wanted to be with me before he left for the front," she voiced, thankful for his warmth as she fought the chill inside. "I told him no." She took a deep breath, filling her lungs as she attempted to assuage her guilt. "I never saw him again."

He pulled the cover over her arm, noticing her skin pimple in response to the night air.

"You loved him very much."

She could not meet his eyes as truth fell from her lips.

"No." He turned her cheek back in his direction, forcing her to see him, nudging her to continue. "I cared about him, very deeply," she admitted, sniffling back emotion still unspent. "We had known each other our entire lives, and everyone expected us to marry. I had gotten so used to the idea that I rarely questioned it myself."

He nodded his understanding.

"Being with me won't bring him back," he stated, leaning over her in a small stance of possession.

"I know," she replied, cupping his cheek, breathing him in. "But it brought me back to myself."

He then kissed her fully, no secrets, no barriers, his fingers still resting on her pulse.

"It did the same for me," he whispered, sensing something tangible shift between them.

She exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

"How long can we stay?" she asked, watching a smile break across his face that actually tugged on one of her own.

"It's ours until morning," he returned, draping his arm about her waist. She stared back at him, memorizing features, touching his lips. Stroking what had first drawn her before she claimed it with her own.

His mouth.


	2. Chapter 2

"When are you leaving?"

The question stings as it scrapes against her throat, and she clings to him tighter, binding him to her as she did every night over these many weeks they had managed to find time alone.

"By noon at the latest," he answers, tracing patterns on her arm, laying his lips to her forehead in a gesture both painful and soothing.

"I don't want you to go."

Her statement hovers above them, a chilling vapor maneuvering under the protection of blankets and skin. He swallows thickly, pulling her on top of him, kissing her soundly, stroking her cheek.

"God knows I don't want to leave you, Mary," he whispers, brushing her palm with his mouth, making himself more a part of her with each touch to her body. "I don't exactly have a choice."

"I know," she breathes, looking into eyes that have wrapped themselves around heartstrings as firmly as his arms encompass her waist. What had started as a physical need had quickly moved into something she could not fathom living without.

She loves him. And that scares the hell out of her.

"Which means I don't have one, either."

His nose nudges hers with a gentleness that belies everything he does with her.

"Of course you do," he returns, stroking her hair in a manner that grants him access to her soul. "You must choose to go on living."

Her heart stills.

"Don't say that," she insists, pushing herself from his chest, shivering at the impact of air on bare skin. "It sounds like you're planning to die."

"Nobody plans to die, Mary," he assures her, pressing up on his elbows as he seeks her with his eyes. "But I've seen too much death to believe I'm above its grasp. On the front, it's everywhere you look."

Arms encourage her forward, back to his embrace, his warmth, and she shivers as an image of him lying cold in a ditch etches itself in her mind. Her stomach nearly revolts, and she swallows down the urge to be sick.

"You must stay above it," she commands, rubbing a finger over parted lips. "I need you to. More than you know."

He clasps her hand gently, kissing her fingers, needing her again with an ache still new to him. She has quickly become more than he bargained for: a lover, a lifeline, a woman who holds a power over him he willingly placed in her keeping.

"If I do survive, can I come back for you?"

The raw quality of his voice beckons her closer, and she draws his upper lip into her mouth, cherishing each part of him.

Wanting everything. Terrified it might slip from her grasp.

"What do you think?"

She is on her back before she realizes what has happened, his mouth just above hers, his eyes nearly black, a slight grin fighting a tremor of what must be buried terror.

"I love you," he answers, the plea on his features unmistakable. "But I think that you know that."

Her heart constricts, pounding pressure against eyelids as ribs tighten their grip on her lungs.

"Yes. I know."

She feels her admission everywhere as a tear stubbornly seeks an exit.

He kisses her again, this time with force. He is not just a soldier, but a man in love, clinging to the last shard of goodness and beauty that may be offered him.

Holding her as if she has the power to save him.

"If I make it through this damned war, do you want me to come back for you? Tell me now if you don't."

Her face tightens, her nod the only answer she can manage until speech finally returns.

"Of course I do."

Her voice is unrecognizable, wounded yet rich, halting yet strong. He touches her lips in a benediction, claiming her words as a talisman he prays God will honor.

"Then I'll do everything I can to be there," he promises, knowing this moment will be forever imprinted on his soul. "I'll marry you if you'll have me."

Rounded eyes gaze into his own, his open smile instigating a flutter just under her naval.

"Is that a proposal?" she dares, uncertain yet hopeful, understanding she has found something of timeless beauty amidst the rubble of a world in hell.

"No," he answers. "Not yet."

He plants a kiss on her nose, rubbing a blessing across her cheekbone.

"You've already lost one fiancé to this blasted war," he continues, outlining her eyebrow. "I won't have you lose another."

He stops her protest before it properly begins, pushing back words with his mouth, absorbing her pleas into the cavity of his body. She pours out her fears through lips and teeth, scratching worry into his skin, wrapping his watch care around her like a robe.

Breath to breath, eye to eye, a future shrouded in doubt somehow shimmers before them all the same.

"When I return—if you still want me—I am yours."

It is a moment that defines her. She knows it, feels it, a quickening in her abdomen, a shiver down her legs. Life will never be the same for her—for them—and she inhales the scent of this second, takes in the breath from his lungs.

"I always want you," she affirms, pulling him to her before kissing him hard. "I love you."

He grasps her limbs, sliding into her with one stroke, wishing they could merge bone into bone, blood into blood, imbibing in life offered and honesty given. Here, on the threshold of death, they love in defiance, join in celebration, cry into each other in a communal prayer for mercy and life. He seeks the miraculous, she absorbs his completion, tears merging with sweat in a physical act now spiritual.

Nothing is sated, yet bodies eventually still, and they see each other anew, knowing vows were just spoken though touch and acceptance. She has laid herself open. He has given her everything. Bare skin is now traced where a ring should be worn, and he kisses it in promise, sealing it with intent.

"When I come back," he breathes, unwilling to withdraw from her as if their connection is the only thing keeping him alive.

"When you come back," she whispers, knowing she will never fully be able to let him go.


	3. Chapter 3

It's funny how painful rain can be when the wind interferes, how mere droplets can slice into skin and chill marrow with the speed of a locomotive before one realizes what is happening.

Her lips are probably a sickly shade of blue, Mary muses thoughtfully, picking up her pace regardless of the threat of breaking a heel as puddles slosh on to her stockings and steal whatever warmth remained hidden in her thighs. God, she dreads the head cold that will almost assuredly pound her with a wallop at dawn's first light, hoping she can keep it contained and avoid passing it along. Aunt Tessa has been more than generous, making her feel truly welcome in the small London home, preparing rations with a skill Mary knows she sorely lacks, sewing new garments and blankets from snatches of material kept stored away for years.

"For a rainy day, you know," the older woman stated, staring into a hope chest full of broken promises and false pretenses, one that makes Mary ache for her aunt all over. It is certainly raining today.

She ducks under a roof top, thankful for the temporary reprieve, even though she knows she must keep going. Its Tessa's evening out with Mr. Murray, and Mary won't interfere with it for anything. God knows the woman deserves a bit of frivolity in her life, and she wishes that Aunt Tessa and her long-time friend would simply kiss and get on with it. The war has impressed on Mary the need to grab life when it stands in front of you, to inhale it's headiness, to taste the bitter and the sweet of all that it offers, digesting both as they bloom into fruition, looking back only to remember and embrace. Never to regret. No. Regret has been banned from her realm of consciousness.

Her heart squeezes again, tendrils of pain laced with hope spinning around every rib and clutching them in a vice, and she closes her eyes, mouthing a prayer for him as she does almost hourly, wondering if there is any chance he still lives, clinging to the mere possibility with the fervor of a drowning woman to a life raft.

_There is always hope_ , she whispers to the rain, wishing the punishing wind would carry her sentiments to wherever he is. But her words smack on to the pavement, covering Britain's ground with yet another unacknowledged plea, washing away all but the memory of a life lived and most likely taken. At weaker moments the chance that he simply returned to America without her pounds relentlessly against her skull. Is it truly possible their time together was no more than a war-time dalliance to him, that he has a fiancé across the Atlantic he now kisses with the same passion with which he loved her? Does another wear the ring he half-promised in whispers and touch before he left?

Her stomach sharply revolts at this notion, rejecting it before it has the chance to poison her mind and taint memories too precious to mar. No. He loved her, at least for a time and thoroughly enough to reconstruct her from the inside out. Of course, time means something else entirely to her now, measured in days and weeks rather than months, and she journals it faithfully for one needed in ways he cannot begin to fathom. So she waits for him, knowing it is most likely futile, yet waiting nonetheless.

A part of her will always be waiting. A part that grows every day.

She can no longer distinguish her tears from the rain on the wet plains of her cheeks. Yet his face continually stares back at her, his presence with her never questioned, the enormity of what they shared in such a short span of time changing her life to the point that it is nearly unrecognizable. And that is good, she reminds herself in a steadying fashion. But God, it's not always easy. How remote her former life now seems, all but stolen weeks with him fading into a bland backdrop, replaced by the vivid hues of his mouth, the warmth of his arms, his breath steaming her skin, his body filling hers completely. Her past now reduced to a life lived in soul-wrenching kisses and heated touch, an eternity created through bodies connected and cries in the dark.

_When I return—if you still want me—I am yours._

"I still want you," she breathes, clutching her purse to her chest, staring into grayness that mirrors the pain of losing him. "God, I want you."

There is no answer. There never is.

Her lips tremble as her feet resume their sodden trek. She runs the final steps, picking up her pace even though she is soaked to the bone. Her hat flies off as she enters the house's warmth, kicking off her shoes and rubbing angry toes. At least she is home. At least she has this.

"I'm here, Aunt Tessa," she states, careful not to raise her voice too loudly less a nap be interrupted. A sound from the parlor alerts her, and she wipes her cheeks, not wanting her aunt to see evidence of further tears. God knows she has borne witness to more than her fair share.

"In here, Mary," Tessa replies, and she grabs a towel left thoughtfully for her near the entrance, half-heartedly drying her hair and sliding off muddy stockings before daring to walk in any further. A warm bath sounds like a luxury, and her mind eases at the thought of tea, hoping Aunt Tessa will have some waiting, regardless of how weak it may be. She takes a quick glance at herself in the small hallway mirror, wincing at the redness in her eyes. Oh, well, there will be no getting around a question or two now. She pinches her cheeks out of habit, hoping some color might allay the onslaught of concern, and she walks barefoot and bare-legged into the parlor, stopping short as if she'd been stung.

Oh, God.

What? How? He…it cannot be…but he is…there…with her aunt…standing…smiling at her…

"Charles?"

She cannot decipher whether or not she has actually spoken, all blood rushing to her head with a force that nearly makes her stumble. The room darkens around her, and she wonders if there is a distant ringing or if the sound exists only within her ears. Then noise collides with reality, and she is in his arms, her feet off the ground, unable to remember whether she ran to him or he to her. But God, it doesn't matter. He is here, his arms holding her so close yet not close enough, his hair in her fingers, his body against hers. She clasps him with a ferocity unleashed in their first kiss, afraid to let go, breathing him in, crying into his uniform, feeling his tears fall freely into her hair.

"You're alive."

She must have actually spoken those words, for he draws back just far enough to cradle her face, nodding as if to convince himself of this fact.

"Yes," he breathes, his thumbs tracing faint lines just under her eyes. "And so are you." She feels something move inside of her at his words, never considering the fact that he might be as concerned for her life as she had been for his.

"And you're here." The sentence tumbles from her lips as she continues to memorize the structure of his bone and skin, noting that he is thinner but otherwise appears to be unscathed. It is then she realizes she is shaking, or he is, or perhaps they both are, and it doesn't matter.

"Yes, I'm here," he whispers. "Where else would I be?"

She falls into him again, holding nothing back in a kiss that consumes them both. He tastes different, the smoke of war and salt of battle making him richer, darker, and she imbibes the jagged ridges of desperation that once had been smooth and polished.

"I'll just be going," her aunt states, making her catch her breath. God, she forgot Aunt Tessa was still in the room, and she buries her face in his shoulder, laughing in spite of herself, clutching to his jacket, rubbing the material through her fingers.

"Please don't leave on my account," Charles entreats, his fingers stroking circles on her back, making damp skin prickle into the warmth of his chest.

"I'm not," Aunt Tessa insists with a wink. "It's my evening out with Mr. Murray, so I'll just make my way to his house. It's almost time for our supper."

"But it's raining," Mary interjects. "And Mr. Murray always comes here to fetch you for your outings."

"I have an umbrella," the older woman insists, pulling her petite frame into a nearly regal pose. "And Mr. Murray's home is only three doors down. I think I can manage, Mary. " Her eyes twinkle as she gazes at the pair of them intently. "Besides, perhaps it's time I take him by surprise for a change."Charles does not attempt to stifle a chuckle, and it warms her to her toes. "You will stay with us, won't you Sergeant Blake? I'll be rather cross with you if you don't."

His breath ruffles her hair as fingers splay possessively over her back.

"I wouldn't want to be a bother, Miss Randall," he returns, and Mary grasps his uniform until her knuckles turn white. She utterly refuses to let him go.

"You won't be at all," her aunt insists. "There's a place for you upstairs, and my bedroom is here on the main floor. I'll hardly even know you're here, I daresay. We've learned to survive bombings, you know. I cannot imagine you'll be any noisier than that. " Mary's cheek burn as she bites back a grin, knowing the only bedroom upstairs is her own. When did her aunt become so progressive and cheeky?

"Then thank you," Charles returns softly. "I'd be honored to stay."

"I thought you might," Tessa grins, making her way towards the front door. "Don't wait up for me." And with that, they are alone.

More than two years' worth of conversation suddenly gets caught in her larynx, and she can only touch, only stare, only continue to convince herself that this is real, that he is real, that the war is essentially over, that there is a true chance to build a life with this man.

"God," he breathes, his hands claiming every crevice of her face and neck. "Oh, God."

Her mouth finds his instantly, open and seeking, needy and dry. Months of longing and unanswered questions pour from one into the other, fingers and hands trying to relearn what was truly never forgotten. She is hot and cold all over, melting as fingers press into her scalp, burning as his tongue moves down her neck.

"Charles," she hums, knowing they must talk, but unwilling to bring an end to this wordless conversation into which they are spiraling hard. "I was…I was so scared." Tears mingle with saliva, bodies drifting towards the sofa in an unvoiced consent.

"So was I," he breathes, staring at her almost reverently as if as if she is a sculpted Madonna. "So was I."

"I prayed for you," she confesses into his skin. "And I rarely pray." His mouth claims hers yet again, his hands straying lower, clasping her bottom and pulling her closer, her arms winding around his neck in a hold not meant to be broken.

"I felt you with me all the time," he whispers into her ear before sliding it into his mouth, making her buckle into him on more levels than she can count. "It's what kept me going." A noise escapes her, heady and deep as another tear works its way down her cheek.

"You have been with me all the time," she confesses, reclaiming his mouth, needing more of this physical connection, still frightened she might wake up at any moment to find him gone. But there is a sound, one she knows well, a small whimper that jerks them apart. Eyes round as the noise escalates into a full-fledged cry, and they both look to the steps as understanding takes root. "Come with me," she whispers, stroking his face yet again, wondering just what is playing through his mind. She clasps his hand within hers, feeling it tremble and giving it a reassuring squeeze, guiding him through a fog as they maneuver the small distance. They stop just outside a door left cracked open, hearing a desperate wail now, peppered with cries for _Mama_.

"Mama," he whispers, seeing her in a new light, cupping her face haltingly as his forehead meets hers.

"Are you ready for this?" Her inquiry brings him up sharply, and he blinks several times in rapid succession, rubbing his fingers through his hair.

"Were you?" he questions, seeing into her past without him as his eyes flicker from her face into the darkened room.

"Of course not," she manages as she hastily wipes away more tears. "But he's wonderful and perfect, and more than I could ever ask for."

"He," he whispers, his chin quivering as he attempts to swallow. "God—a boy?"

"A son," she assures him, moving in close enough to smooth a tendril of hair from his forehead. "Your son. Our son."

He breaks open, then, weeping openly, latching on to her with a ferocity she returns.

"God," he manages, her shoulder now as soaked from his tears as it had been from the rain. The baby becomes more insistent, and she smiles back at him, raising a brow, seeing him nod before leading him inside. Chubby arms reach for her over a mass of black curls gone haphazardly askew. She reaches for him with practiced ease, and the toddler rests his head on her shoulder, instantly contented in his mother's arms. Charles watches them, a tender wonder overtaking his features as she walks in his direction. His hand at first hovers over the boy, as if he is unsure of his right to step into their bond.

"Go on," she assures him, watching a father's hand stroke his son's head for the first time, feeling the contact all over. The child raises his head in curiosity, gazing up at an unknown face so much like his own.

"He's just like you," Charles breathes, softly stroking the boy's full cheeks.

"Don't be silly," Mary throws back, her voice still unsteady. "He's just like you."

"No," Charles argues, stepping in closer. "He's much more beautiful than I am."

The baby grabs his father's offered finger, tugging it towards his mouth with a slobbery determination. Charles laughs then, bending down to kiss the boy's head, shattering yet again at the contact.

"Would you like to sit down?" she asks him, seeing his nodded response. She glances towards a small bench, and he nearly collapses on to it, dropping his face into his hands as so much spills out of him in his son's small nursery.

"What's his name?" he finally asks, wiping his face and blinking his eyes in an attempt to focus.

"Isaac," she answers, kissing her son's forehead. "Charles Isaac."

He nearly falters yet again, scooting over as far as he can, and she sits beside him, allowing their child to touch this new person to whom he owes his existence.

"He's why your parents were so hostile towards me when I showed up on their doorstep looking for you," he reasons, and she nods in assent, seeing her child anew through his eyes. "Your mother handed me this address and told me I was never to show my face in her house again."

"Don't feel bad," Mary returns softly. "I'm no longer welcome there, either." This seems to hurt him, and she presses a kiss to his damp cheek. "I'm happier here," she assures him, smiling as Isaac reaches grabs Charles's chin. "Happier than I ever was back there. Aunt Tessa is the loveliest person I know, truly. She took me in without a question and makes over Isaac as if he is the sun, moon and stars."

"I think he must be," Charles murmurs, unable to take his eyes from his son. "How could he not be when you're his mother?" Her soul warms and sparks.

"Would you like to hold him?" She hears his intake of breath.

"Will he let me?"

"I don't know," she admits. "But I think it's worth a try."

He nods, sliding large hands under the boy's arms, and she watches in wonder as her son truly meets his father for the first time. Isaac's eyes widen in a mild panic, and she touches his head, assuring the child she is still here as he turns his attention to the new man in his life.

"God," he whispers again, and her heart swells to the point of near pain. "Hello, Isaac. I'm your Daddy."

His distinctive American accent makes her smile all the broader, knowing the war for them is now thoroughly and completely over. _Thank God_ , she thinks to herself, her hands touching the man and boy she loves in a silent benediction. And as she glimpses the miraculous taking place just in front of her, she cannot help but wonder if God has been listening all this time.


	4. Chapter 4

She cannot breathe.

They'd just crossed an ocean—an ocean, for God's sake—after surviving a war, after she'd given birth out of wedlock and cared for a newborn in the midst of bombings, rations and parental scorn, after she'd wondered and prayed for two years without knowing if she'd ever see him again, after living day to day without any assurance he still lived. Walking up a few steps shouldn't be so intimidating.

But it is. Oh God, it is.

She's staring at the house, she cannot help it, the absolute American-esque quality of it striking her squarely in the gut as Isaac tugs at her collar.

"It's alright, Mary," Charles whispers, and she exhales audibly, kissing her son's dark head as her eyes never stray from the front porch. "They're going to love you."

She nods absently, wondering how he can be so certain that his parents will love and accept his recently acquired British wife and son, remnants from a war that took him across the Atlantic and into her life.

"And if they don't?"

The fear escapes her before she can call it back, and she bites her lower lip as he kisses her forehead.

"They will," he assures her, touching Isaac's nose playfully. "And they know you're coming, so this isn't a surprise." He stares at her, easily reading that his reassurances are doing very little to placate her overly-sensitized nerves. "Trust me. Alright?"

She does trust him. But she's not entirely certain he is right. His arm tightens about her waist, and she inhales as deeply as she can, absorbing the breeze on her face as it rushes against her legs and toys with her hair. She wishes Aunt Tessa were here as she stands so very close to the unknown, the unknown who are now her family.

"Ready?"

She isn't, but she nods, certain he sees through her lie. But he leads her forward, one step then two, and she trembles as each one ripple up her limbs. Her legs feel leaden, her toes nearly numb, her ribs constricting as if the air is thinning with each step towards his house. What if they hate her, she asks herself for at least the thousandth time. God knows her own parents seemed to have no second thoughts about kicking her out and washing their hands of both her and her unborn child. Why should Charles's parents be any different? What if they see her as an opportunist who brazenly latched on to an American soldier as a means of extricating herself and her son from the rubble and aftermath of a world gone mad?

She holds Isaac all the closer, but the boy is curious, and he looks towards the door, pointing to it even as it remains closed.

"Yes, my sweet," she murmurs into his forehead. "We're going to the door."

"Doh?" Isaac echoes, looking to his father for approval, receiving it in spades.

"Door," Charles affirms, receiving a grin that reveals the boys two new teeth as they reach the base of the steps. He pauses, ruffling Isaac's curls and looking at her, and she feels the weight of lost time, time spent apart through no choice of their own.

"They'll love you," he whispers yet again. "Because you make me happy."

She's warm all over then with the exception of her fingers and toes, and she manages a smile, allowing herself to be wrapped up in all he means to her.

"Don't make me blush," she muses, her attempt at levity falling flat in her stomach. He kisses the tip of her nose, pulling back and tossing her that all-too smug smile she craves like air.

"But you're so cute when you blush," he teases, his forehead touching hers just as a noise catches their attention. They pull back, sucking in air as a graying man strides out and stands in the middle of the porch, his expression frozen and unreadable.

God—oh God.

"Charles," the man mutters, his cheeks quivering as they break into a smile that covers his entire face, and he moves towards the steps as fast as his cane will allow him, clearly refusing to allow one bad leg to keep him from reaching his destination.

"Dad," Charles cries, and he's engulfed completely before her eyes. Tears push their way through before she can call them back, trailing a crooked path down her cheek before Isaac brushes against her skin. Yet she doesn't want to call them back, this is too beautiful, too right to disturb. He is home—her Charles is home, and something lifts from her just at this, even though her own nerves still hover perilously near the surface. She hugs her own son closer, seeing her husband in a light unavailable to her until this very moment. She cannot help but relive the moment when Charles first laid eyes on Isaac—a moment seared into her very soul that now permeates every fiber of her being.

"My boy," his father mutters, his voice cracking with emotion as his hands clasp Charles's shoulders. "Thank God. Thank God."

The final words are whispered through anxious years of separation, and they men embrace yet again as Isaac gazes at them in wonder. The breeze flits up her skirt again, but she barely notices, squinting as the sun chooses this particular moment to emerge from behind tall, white clouds.

"Charles."

His attention is captured immediately, and she watches as her husband breaks from his father and stands immobile, almost as if he's just heard the voice of God. Charles then runs towards the woman, out-pacing her even though she reaches the top step with a stride rather perky for someone her age. She's petite with hair both brown and gray, and Mary bites her lower lip as Charles lifts his mother up in the air, receiving a squeal of both protest and delight in return as he swings her around once. They remain attached, still a part of each other, unwilling to let go, mother and son, Madonna and child. Her heart swells as Isaac reaches for her pearls, prompting her to bounce him gently on her hip and breathe into his hair.

She is witnessing something sacred—something she prays she will never have to endure. How would she ever cope knowing her son was a world away fighting a war that had no concern for how many lives it devoured in its wake? Just the thought of it nearly suffocates her, and she kisses Isaac's forehead, pressing her lips to soft skin just a moment longer to banish the mere possibility from her mind.

War is not something mothers of sons take lightly.

She feels the mood shift before she sees it, sensing that all eyes now rest on her and the boy in her arms. Her spine prickles, her mouth dries, and she takes a fortifying breath, bracing herself for whatever may come.

His mother walks directly to her, making Mary's spine tingle as she stares at her with an emotion almost otherworldly. Then the older woman touches Isaac's hair as she bites her lower lip, clasping Mary's arm gently with her other hand, her fingers nearly as cold as her own.

"Mary," she whispers as tears spill freely. "Isaac."

Even the breeze stills at her words.

They are then wrapped in an embrace that takes Mary by surprise, yet one she welcomes as warm liquid fills her veins and releases all fear. His mother draws back then, never slacking her grip as her lips move before sound can be uttered. But when the words arrive, they are a balm to her spirit, a beacon of peace and rest at the end of a very long journey.

"Welcome home."


End file.
